Nigel

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he knows the buttons to press too well. He taps out the last few lines and attaches it to an email. Please see attached. We need to talk. Don’t reply to this email, I will ring or text x. Then, with a flurry of adept mouse-clicks he obliterates any record his proposition.
Leaning backwards in the chair Nigel knocks back his whisky, sucking every last drop of the smoky Laphroaig through the ice. He thinks of Celia. Of ten years spent furnishing their house; of buying art he couldn’t afford; of dinner parties with ‘influential’ people. Not for much longer, he thinks. Soon he will be free.
He pushes himself upright and strides out of the study, leather soles breaking the silence like a slow hand-clap. Four slender fingers and a silver-ringed thumb drag back through his dark, still thick hair, then ruffle the front and pull a couple of wisps between his full, arched eyebrows. He glides past limited edition prints, down the polished pine hall to the kitchen. As he pours more ...

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